


A Scarred Sunrise

by fallingforfandoms



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Edward's POV, F/M, Feelings, Flashbacks, M/M, Mild Smut, Missing Scene, Morning After, Multi, One Shot, Threesome - F/M/M, blame it on the bourbon, my poor confused and overwhelmed boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforfandoms/pseuds/fallingforfandoms
Summary: Edward knows that the wave of delight he’s riding on right now is bound to crash, to bury him beneath feral forces. But for now, he just enjoys the freedom, the adrenaline of tiptoeing on the edge of the feasible. Even though the real chances are close to none, he imagines being caught in a safety net if he dares to jump, a net that Claire laid out herself to ease their fall. The warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach might be a repercussion of those three emptied bottles on their table. But it might just as well be a headless reflex to her soft, natural giggle that lingers in the small space between them, in the heated air smelling faintly of smoke and sin.
Relationships: Edward Meechum/Claire Underwood, Edward Meechum/Claire Underwood/Francis Underwood, Edward Meechum/Francis Underwood
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	A Scarred Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Way to make a debut, am I right? Please don't kill me for this, I don't even know what the hell I'm doing here.
> 
> (Whoever spots the tiny Sherlock reference in this one, you're in too deep, but you probably knew that already.)

As the first rays of light nuzzle Edward awake, he’s not only surprised by the brightness that hits his eyes once he opens them – it’s the angle too. For as long as he can remember, his window has been directly opposite the head of his bed. It’s a habit he formed during his first week in Bahrain, to prevent him from sleeping in beyond the sunrise and missing out on his missions.

But now, the warm, comforting light illuminates mostly the dark carpet in front of him while he’s lying on his side in the dark, watching the dust dance a slow waltz in the air to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Ever so slowly, his senses come to life again, making him acutely aware of his surroundings: A few drops of cold sweat are lingering on the nape of his neck. There’s a body pressed to his back, radiating incredibly soothing warmth. A hand is loosely holding onto his hip and a long, slender leg is intertwined with his.

Muffled sirens rush past this little, isolated island of bliss and irresponsibility as his bruised memory starts to dissect the mush that he can remember behind squinted eyes that finally close once more. Carefully, he begins to fish in that pond of piranhas, hoping to catch a glimpse at them without catching serious bites that might poison him, might end life as he knew it before last night. As he raises his right hand to his forehead to smooth over the worry lines, he’s struck by another irregularity: The touch doesn’t feel the same, not as imminent. The frown deepens as he lowers his hand again, as his grave gaze falls upon the slim bandage wrapped around his palm that’s drenched in red on the inside.

_Suddenly, sharp pain in that same palm clouds his already impaired judgement from one second to the next, while dozens of shards flash before his eyes within nothing but a blink. As the smell of alcohol creeps up his nose, a few drops of his blood mingle with the pool of spilled wine on the floor. _

His pale face loses all remaining color as he tries to come to terms with the full extent of the memory he’s trapped in, turning one page at a time to avoid shattering the bubble. Just as he settles into the muffled mush of calm, rhythmic breathing that fills the thick air of the room, another sound drowns out the quiet in the most heartwarming way possible.

_It’s almost juvenile, that laugh of hers, and a little higher than he imagined it to be, and worriless, for once. God, he doesn’t want it to end. None of it. Not the merry sound of blissful chuckles, not the smoothing taste of bourbon on his loose tongue, not the fleeting touch of their knuckles as they both cling to their half-full glasses. _

_“So, tell me, …”, Claire starts off once more, trying to direct her voice back into its constrained lanes, “Have you ever been this drunk before?” _

_“Once”, Edward points with his free but bandaged hand, slightly wincing at the motion, “In college. There was this pity party we threw for Andrew, one of our guys who got ditched. We planned the whole thing for a week, even paid for a few call girls to keep him entertained. And guess what?”, he smiles, already shaking his head incredulously. She might have said something in the meantime, but he can’t really know it for sure, because he feels like swimming in jelly after that movement. _

_“Well, we had clubbed together for it, but we could barely afford three of these girls for one night. Harry even wanted to go into debt because that meant so much to him. So, these three brunette beauties came in and we were so damn drunk and so damn proud of ourselves. I thought: ‘Hey, Stella’s really something, maybe, just maybe, I could …’", he trails off, chiming into her soft chuckle as their eyes meet over the rims of their glasses, “And then there was Andrew, who looked at us with a dead face, completely killing the mood. After everything we had done, after all the money we had spent. He just sat there, and we were waiting. We were so wasted that we were already panicking, thinking he was against this whole thing, that this breakup had made him a priest or something. I almost peed myself, maybe I really did, because I was so scared that he’d rat us out to the dean”, he shakes his head again, ignoring the dizziness that only intensifies as her amused laugh reaches his ears, “So, he saw us getting nervous as hell and, just like that,…”, he barely manages to finish the story, almost as drunk on her contagious laugh as on the bottles they have shared for the past hours. “Just like that, he said: ‘I don’t like brunettes.’” _

_As their bodies are shaken with laughter and numbed by bourbon, it’s easy for him to forget the pain claiming his palm. Edward knows that the wave of delight he’s riding on right now is bound to crash, to bury him beneath feral forces. But for now, he just enjoys the freedom, the adrenaline of tiptoeing on the edge of the feasible. Even though the real chances are close to none, he imagines being caught in a safety net if he dares to jump, a net that Claire laid out herself to ease their fall. The warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach might be a repercussion of those three emptied bottles on their table. But it might just as well be a headless reflex to her soft, natural giggle that lingers in the small space between them, in the heated air smelling faintly of smoke and sin. _

_It’s unfathomable, the luck he’s privy to as he watches her carefully crafted appearance come apart. Every sip she takes washes down another facet of her façade. Every time her head falls down in incredulous amusement, it tears another minuscule crack into her dam. It’s bound to break, eventually, after another bottle or two. And God knows what awaits him then, beyond the soft chuckle that slowly fades out between them. Just as he dares to imagine that untamed version of her, Frank's deep drawl that seems equally amused catches him off-guard from the other end of the room. _

At first, Edward isn’t sure where the sleepy semblance of a moan comes from all of a sudden. It might be another afterthought of an adventure he never dared to dream about. But as he tries to ground himself to the present, he can still hear it, faintly, from the other side of the bed. Delicate fingers circle carefully around the same spot on his hip that they used to rest on, venturing a few inches further down as a sharp exhale surmounts the knot in his dry throat.

What the hell is he doing here?

What the hell was he doing here?

_As his own pulse drumming in his ears sets the pace, it’s accompanied by hitched breaths and thudding belts and heels. A low, anticipating growl turns into a desperate groan within a heartbeat. Expensive fabric rustles under impatient fingers as it is thrown to the ground recklessly, crumpled and crushed. He can hear his own pained wince as his bruised hand digs into short hair damped in sweat. He can’t dissect a single second of that breathtaking night. They were one, one inseparable, insatiable union hungry for more. _

And yet, as his left arm dangles loosely on the side of their bed, he can’t help but feel like an outsider in this moment. Even though his body is unmistakably entwined with theirs, his mind isn’t. He isn’t as bright as they are, can’t find the wavelength they’re silently communicating over. He hasn’t seen what they’ve seen, hasn’t done what they’ve done. He might know a thing or two about their lives, about the fact that they’re not exactly angels. He might be on their side, but that doesn’t make him one of them.

He’s an intruder who has no right to share this intimacy with them. When he swore an oath to protect their lives with his, he did it in public. But when he swore one sinful syllable over and over again at the thought of the three of them, he did it in private, in his own stuffy and lonely bedroom that’s far too bright in the morning, because he knows his place in the food chain. He knows he’s replaceable to them, like one of Claire's delicate, form-fitting dresses that he always wanted to unzip or one of Frank's patterned ties that he always wanted to undo.

“Good morning”, Claire whispers in Edward’s ear and chuckles at the goosebumps racing down his backside in the wake of the sudden sensation, “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I-“, he sets off, immensely grateful for the fact that his voice isn’t as hoarse as he feared it to be. As she shushes him, her lips graze his ear once more. The tender touch lets a raspy breath get caught in his dry throat.

“I thought we settled that, Edward”, she shakes her head, her nose brushing against his spine in the process, “As long as we’re in here, …”, she mutters against his skin covered in a thin film of sweat, her lips curled up in a smile as they linger between his shoulder blades.

“We’re equals”, Frank’s deep voice clouded by sleep makes Edward’s heart skip a beat before he turns around slowly, not daring to take so much as a breath. Propped up on one elbow, Edward watches the sunlight paint golden stripes on the couple’s skin through the blinds. At the other end of the bed, Francis mirrors his posture, his other hand ghosting over his wife’s taunt stomach in loose circles. Perhaps one might deem it accidental when it ventures out of its territory once or twice, but after last night, Edward knows the true intention behind all that happens in this room.

Finally, as the men’s eyes meet across the dimly lit room, as their hands meet on the smooth skin between them, they’re on the same wavelength, sharing the same goal, following the same, unspoken plan.

In here, they’re equals.


End file.
